Chapter #5An Unexpected Visitant by: Seuzz   Previously: "An Unexpected Escape" 
It is dark, and you are cold, colder than you have ever felt. Frost seems to settle about you, covering and locking you in an icy rime. You can't see anything, but a white film covers your eyes, blinding you even to the nothingness. You lose all sense of weight, and time itself crystalizes into a frozen moment where thought stands still.
And then you are free again, in the darkness. You are standing still, or are floating, or you would be floating if you had a body, but you feel yourself as only a presence in a void. A feeling of vertigo seizes you, and maybe you are spinning, but then an object looms into view. It is round and pale and shines feebly, like a mirror in a darkened room.
It is the Moon, you suddenly realize, for you can make out its features. They stand in sharp relief against the inky darkness. It hangs there, unmoving. But as you watch with a kind of enervated fascination, it grows larger. Either it is hurtling toward you, or you are hurtling toward it.
Larger and larger it looms, and the speckles on its surface resolve into dots and then into craters. Is it the Moon, the Moon you occasionally glance at in the sky? For it looks strange, and then you realize it has no seas, no dark patches. It is nothing but a great white circle sprinkled with smaller, darker circles. Maybe it's the dark side of the Moon, the side no one can see from Earth.
And it continues to grow, until it fills your entire field of vision. You will hit it, like a meteorite, and though you feel no substance to yourself, you brace yourself. Large craters resolve into nested circles of small craters, which resolve into smaller craters still, the wounds of eons of uneroded impacts. There is a very small and very dark one directly in front of you, and it seems to open like a window as you race toward it.
You plunge into it and through it.
* * * * *
You are looking into a small room. It is very dim, for the only light comes from a single candle, but in the gloom you can make out a modest and homely kitchen. In the very center is a table, and hunched over the table, with its back to you, is a figure. You hear the scrape of metal against porcelain, and know that the figure is eating.
You can't move, and you can't turn your head.
Scrape and clink. The figure continues to eat, unheeding of your presence. He or she is eating very slowly and deliberately. You watch, desperately wondering where you are and how you got here and what possibly could happen next.
Then the figure falls silent, and with a hard clink sets the fork and knife upon the plate. The outline of a head raises up. And slowly the person turns in the chair.
It is a woman, though you can't make out her features too clearly. Her face is in shadow, but twin gleams of light show her eyes. She grasps the back of the chair and stares at you.
You wish you could speak, though you've no idea what to say.
She chews, and swallows a last morsel of food. She slowly stands, and as she does so reaches behind to close a book that had been lying on the table.
She is tall--about as tall as you--and as she steps forward you get a better look at her face. It has a severe cast, but is rather pretty in a cat-like way. She's in her late twenties, you think, and her hair must be very fair, for it shines in the darkness with a silvery gleam. She is dressed in a short t-shirt that falls over strong breasts and exposes a tight and beautiful tummy, and her legs, which are wrapped in jeans, are very shapely. Her clothes are either black or navy blue, and her bare arms are rather pale.
She advances slowly on you, and now you back away. Or maybe you are being pushed back, for you are not willing yourself into motion. You slip backwards, down a short hallway, and into another room. This one is entirely dark, and you have the impression that the ceiling is very low.
The woman pursues you, her gaze unblinking, until she is in the room with you. Her lips part and twitch wordlessly, and you feel, rather than see, a glow about you.
She sucks in a sharp breath.
You stand like this, staring at each other, for what seems a very long time. At one point, she bites her lower lip, and something like fear shows in her eyes.
She advances on you again, but at an angle, and you are driven back into a corner. She circles you until she is before the door of a wardrobe. Her eyes still locked on you, she opens the wardrobe, swinging the door back to show a full-length mirror.
In that mirror you can see her back--strong and shapely--and on the other side your own pale and sickly form. You look like a ghost.
Again, she begins to circle you, driving you around the room. She passes a small desk, from which she picks up a small, disc-shaped object. It flashes in her hand. It is a mirror.
She drives you in a circle about the room, prowling without drawing any closer, until you sense yourself against that wardrobe. Only then does she stop, holding the mirror at her breast.
Her expression tightens, and now there's no mistaking the fear upon it. She grips the mirror tightly.
And then she changes. Her hair wavers, replaced by a short, manly bob, and her face alters too. Her breasts vanish, and the t-shirt falls to cover her stomach. You'd blink if you could, for now you're facing a young man. There is something familiar about his face.
You've no time to place it, for he abruptly raises the mirror, and a hard flash of light blinds you.
* * * * *
You lower the mirror and blink. The apparition has vanished. Except it hasn't. You feel it settle and dissolve into you, and you briefly sense its startled surprise. Your startled surprise, for you've entirely absorbed it and everything it was, including its sense of self.
And it was you. A version of you. You shudder as you remember the hard faces of the golems as they'd stared down at you.
Well, you're well out of that. But there's nothing you can do about it, and you're sure it's not the sort of thing anyone you know can do anything about. Of course, you can't help feeling a terrible pity for the poor bastards caught up in that business, but its meaning--if it has one--lies elsewhere now.
You close the wardrobe and drop the mirror onto the desk and march briskly through the kitchen to the back door. The rumble of nighttime traffic becomes louder as you step into the garden and stride over to the figure stretched out on the grass. You kick him lightly in the hip. "Don't just lay there and tell me you didn't feel anything, Frank."
He sits up sharply. "Why, what happened?"
"Oh, nothing. Just worlds colliding. Didn't you feel it?"
"I didn't feel anything. What makes you-- Why did you change?"
"That's what I'd like to know." You frown. "I'll have to meditate on it. Shit. Are you up or going back down? Come to bed. I didn't fly back early so I could spend a fuckless night in a cold bed."
He grunts. "If you have to meditate anyway, Marta--" He looks you up and down, and grunts again. "If you have to meditate, Will, you might as well--"
You drop onto him, slipping back into your "Marta" form as you do so, and straddle him. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and kiss him hungrily.
"I just got a bad shock, Frank," you murmur when you release his mouth. "I can meditate in the morning--" You kiss him again, and he kisses you back. "It'll keep till then. But I need--"
You dart back in, and now there's a taste of blood on your tongue. Or is it on his tongue and you're licking it off his?
"And I need something hard and firm to get a grip on. That's what you give me, right?" You hug him tightly and rub your face against his; the bristles on his cheek scratch and bite at yours. "Something to nail me in place?"
He wraps you in his arms and gets to his feet, lifting himself and you as easily as nothing. You wrap your legs about his hips and hang on tightly as he takes you inside and throws you onto the bed. There's a brief tearing of clothes, and then he's atop you and inside you: a great shaft of iron. You don't scream as you cum, because it's not passion you feel shuddering through you, but safety and security and firmness of being.
Once is enough, and when you roll over at three in the morning to find he's returned to the garden you just go back to sleep. That's the way it is with Frank, and you're entirely content with what he gives you. For he gives you everything you need.
* * * * *
"So what was that about last night?" he asks the next morning as you sit down to breakfast. "You weren't just looking for a good fuck, I could tell."
You slop some of your kale smoothie into a glass and avoid his eye. You're far from sure what it was about, and you doubt it has anything to do with him. And telling him about it might freak him out. Frank often worries about the future; he doesn't need to worry about a past that never happened.
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